I have been having a very hard time getting this story together because I had a huge amount plotted out. Hints, investigations, interrogations... I had a lot put together, just not fully written out... Then my Netbook died. I lost all of my files and notes, and it tossed me for a major loop. After re-reading the story a few times, and re-writing what I remembered, I am ready to get started again with this story.

I am also writing An Avengers/Harry Potter crossover with a FEM!Harry/Loki pairing. If you guys would like, give that a read!



Lestrade was writing down the list of red flags as another officer took pictures. The cupboard under the stairs, the bedroom door, the cat flap, everything was being accounted for and documented. Harry was sitting in the ambulance as they started making a record of his injuries, both current and past. Child protective services had already been called as well, but they were nowhere to be seen yet...

Everything was moving along in the right direction, except for the guilty party. The three abusers were sitting silently, no longer yelling or even speaking. They seemed to realize that the police were there for them, not for Harry. So, as one, they all clammed up. Even the load-mouthed 'man of the house' that was red at the face had stopped telling them off.

Then there was Harry, the poor boy. He was still in a wretched state. He was quickly curling in on himself as John was trying to bring him out of his third panic attack. He had spent over a half hour telling them EVERYTHING. From his first memories in the cupboard under the stairs to his cousin blaming him for Miss. Figg's death just a few hours ago. He gave every detail he could, and a part of him was glad that he didn't have to hear any more. Lestrade's file on this was going to be huge... Thank god John was here... He knew panic attacks and PTSD and all of that. Lestrade wasn't good with any of those sort of things. The Ambulance would house the boy until after they were done going through the whole place with a fine tooth comb, and John assured him he wasn't going anywhere at the moment...

He just wished he knew where the hell Sherlock had gone off to.

Sherlock had to admit, his boy was good... Very good.

The pub, 1, 2, 6, 7, 8, 14 and 16. Those were the only houses he had to check now. The search was narrowed down from the whole town to a block, to just 8.

Okay, so maybe his protégé was a bit more than good. But Wiz kid lived here, and Sherlock did not, so he obviously would have the advantage. At least that was what Sherlock was telling himself.

He had just gotten done taking a long look around the outside of the pub. Sadly, it yielded nothing. The walkway was concrete, and there wasn't even any blood splatter for him to analyze. The owner wasn't much of murderer, barely even dangerous to the barflies he looked after. He wrote the pub off quickly and decided to walk a circle around the block. Looking closely at the houses that were on the short list while the inhabitants were still out and about, watching the excitement going on at number 4.

1, 2, 6, 7, 8, 14, and 16. Those were his leads now.

He started at number one. That husband he was unsure of at first. He was a well-built sort of fellow, But being able to murder and being capable of 3 vicious murders were two different things. Just because he COULD doesn't mean he WOULD. And if he hadn't killed that evil, spiteful, money-digging wife of his, he wouldn't kill anyone. He wouldn't have the heart to... Sherlock silently wished him happiness and hoped he filed for divorce quickly. He took him off their list.

The Husband of number 2... The Cheater. He wasn't the killer. The man was a coward, and jumpy. He seemed sure that every shadow was after him. He was underhanded as well and preferred sneaking around doing things covertly. Big, showy murders would not be his thing... But if he was the man's wife or mistress, he'd check for poisons quite a bit. Especially if he got caught or got bored with either one of them. Poisons seem more his speed. Still, he wrote him off their list.

The next houses were 6, 7, and 8.

Six worried him. The man was obviously abusive to his wife and growing far too fond of his young step-daughter who had just started dating herself. He was far too much of a "King of the castle" kind of man to be ignored. He was also a gambler and a dangerous drunk. At from the look of the overly-full recycling bin of empty ale and beer bottles, you could tell he was drunk fairly often. For the sake of the step-daughter alone, Sherlock would pass on a bit of well-worded information to the right people... He would hope for the best. He stayed on their list.

7 was weird. This man also had a daughter and seemed well built and dangerous. But unlike the other men, he hadn't been outside gawking like the rest, so Sherlock didn't get anything more than a glace at him before he was gone. He had been denied data again today, and he didn't like it. He kept him on the list, by virtue of lack of evidence alone. If he couldn't confirm it wasn't him, he wasn't going to take him off their list. He'd keep an eye open, and reassess him later.

Number 8 was by far the easiest. The man wasn't even home during the last murder. His car arrived late and pulled directly into his parking space. His wife ran over from the group to get him, their baby still hanging on her hip. It only took Sherlock a moment to realize he had been working overtime at his job, as many new fathers do to keep things at home afloat. He was a good man, a good husband, and would be a good father in the years ahead. Sherlock gladly checked him off their list.

14 and 16 were the last two houses he needed to look at. He picked up his heels as he headed that way.

Number 14, the house next to Ms. Figg was next. The man was older but still fairly strong and healthy. But when he saw the man tearful talking to the police officers outside, answering questions about the call he made, Sherlock wrote him off. He was evidently the one that alerted the authorities to the murder at number 13 in the first place, and the tears were real. Sherlock assumed he may have even had a bit of a crush on his female neighbor. He was not the killer. With 14 marked off their list, he moved on.

Number 16 was a bust. Unknown to most of the others on privet drive, the husband had left his wife and home a few days earlier, taking his son with him. Sherlock assumed from the screaming of his wife on the phone, and the vile words yelled at one another, he wasn't coming back anytime soon. Another off the list.

So... Sherlock thought to himself smugly. Less than half an hour, and down to only two. Number 6 and Number 7...

Sherlock headed back towards Number 4, and to the ambulance that he knew John and Harry were, with a smile on his face. This case would be closed before the night was done. All he had to do was tell Scotland yard, then call it a night...

It was then that a Motorcycle turned onto privet drive. A fairly loud, older model Harley with a spoiler in dire need of repair. Sherlock looked at it as it passed him and paid it no mind until it parked in front of number 6. The man on it then revved his engine loudly twice. The young daughter from Number 6 then ran out of her house as quick as she could, tossing a leather jacket over her shoulders. She hopped on the bike without a backward glance. The man then started moving, driving past the cop cars and gawkers with a care, not even waiting for his companion to get her helmet fully on. That's when the alarms in his mind palace started blaring.

Tough guy, more than a bit abusive, hates authorities and social norms. Right weight, right height, right build... Sherlock picked up his steps as the girl clipped on her helmet. Panic started to fill him, as the motorcycle started driving past the last cop car... Sherlock was now running full-speed after them.

Completely covered in black, with a black tinted helmet... He's wearing them INTENTIONALLY. Sherlock's mind screamed as he looked closer at the back of the bike for the plate number. His breath caught. There it was, shining silver, wrapped and locked tight behind the metal seat guard.

A motorcycle chain...

"STOP HIM, STOP THE BIKE!" Sherlock screamed, pointing at the two. Anderson and Donovan looked at him dumbly for a moment, before looking at where he was pointing... Their eyes went wide, and they started chasing after them as well.

But it was too late... The man was already past the police line and heard the yells, so he slammed on the gas. He turned off the main road with a dangerously sharp yank. Going far faster than should be allowed.

By the time Sherlock, Donavan and Anderson got to the end of the road, The biker and the 16-year-old girl were gone.